


all the stars and moons (and skies)

by euphania



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Slice of Life, i guess, mentions of abuse, questionable shoutouts to russian culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7823263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphania/pseuds/euphania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Bolkonskaya, and Moscow, and home, and Natasha. Always Natasha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the stars and moons (and skies)

**Author's Note:**

> notes:  
> \- this was way too long in the making; i must’ve started this over a month ago and could never find an ending… until now!  
> \- parts of this are some of the loveliest things i’ve ever gotten to write. i hope they're as comforting to you as they are to me.  
> \- there are some mentions of abuse cause old bolkonsky is a horrible little man. however, it's not the focus at all!! pls keep yourself safe

**i.**

It’s been over a year since Mary’s father’s passing, and all of Moscow is free to her.

Her father’s absence isn’t a weight lifted from her shoulders, at least, not in the sigh-of-relief way. Mary’s floating, much too light, filled with much too little, and Moscow is the sea, or maybe the desert, or maybe a massive gust of wind. She supposes she should be _him,_ be her brother, be someone heavy and filled with stone who could handle all this.

Natasha disagrees. Of course she does; everything always circles back to Natasha. Natasha disagrees, says that light is okay, says that “I’m always here, you know that, and Moscow maybe be scruffy, but it’s still cozy.”

Everything in life always circles back to Natasha, Mary’s learned. It’s not a bad thing.

Natasha asks her often if she’s sure Moscow feels safe, feels like home, and Mary insists it is, smiles for her, agrees, lets herself be kissed once (on the nose), twice (on the lips). Natasha is an angel, she thinks, an earthborn one, filled with sunshine and moons, and as long as she’s here, Moscow is fine.

 

**ii.**

Mary changes every day.

Natasha notices it as the months go by, after moving in and learning where she puts her shoes by the door and how she—herself, alone—does the dishes, no one else.

She always changes. One day, she goes out into Moscow alone and buys new clothes, gentle colors like beige and navy green; the next, she bakes blueberry babkas with blueberries from the produkti down the road, just because she can; another, she’s calling Moscow _home_. Sometimes, Natasha wonders if her girlfriend is slowly morphing into an entirely new person—was Mary always slightly taller than her? Did her eyes always shine and reflect like a kaleidoscope? (The answer to both is yes, but Natasha has always loved whimsy.)

Mary still keeps the white dress he asked her to wear on his deathbed. It’s in her closet on the far left, next to the dress shoes and the winter sweaters, and she doesn’t wear it.

Mary changes every day, and Natasha couldn’t be more in love, more proud.

 

**iii.**

There are things Mary doesn’t know.

Nothing bad, of course; Natasha swears by the moon that Mary is incapable of doing anything malevolent. It’s etiquette, mostly, things Natasha learned at social hour every Tuesday, like how to lead a partner or the way to spin and not step on one’s under-skirts. The Rostovs and the Bolkonskys share an affinity for the old-school, relishing in the cultural Russia of the past, so Natasha is stunned when Mary doesn’t know how to step in an _écosaisse_ or turn in _les moulinets_. A whole life with the Bolkonskys at Bald Hills, and Mary has never learned to dance.

It takes Natasha two minutes to find suitable waltz music and thirty minutes until Mary is hesitantly following Natasha’s lead as they sway across their small living room, paying careful attention to the coffee table with the purple violets. Natasha’s hand is pressed against Mary’s back—a steady reassurance for her, Natasha hopes—and they are close enough that Natasha can smell the chamomile and new cloth scent that floats around her girlfriend in a haze. The same song has spun on repeat four times, a symphony trickling into their apartment. It’s by some Russian composer, someone in love with Moscow and the whimsy of high society.

“You learn fast,” Natasha tells Mary as the violins swell. “Do you want to try a spin? Technically, it’s an underarm turn, but who’s counting…”

The oboe solo comes in, piping and black and white, and Natasha thinks they should be the stars of an opera, a ballet, two classical figures dancing a hasty waltz in a tiny living room of a tiny apartment, oil painting happiness and sincerity on their faces. When Mary turns, it’s with a small grace; the folds of her skirt sashay around her as she stumbles, having to use her foot to propel her through the spin. Natasha loves it, thinks Mary should be a dancer, thinks Mary should be famous, and the happy, rejoicing smile Mary has as they resume the waltz with relative ease seems to scream “Kiss me!”; Natasha has to remind herself that she can.

 

**iv.**

Moscow is old and new to both of them. Natasha has lived here her whole life, but has always wanted to move, always wanted to _explore_ , see what’s outside of Russia and—maybe—never look back. She wants to go to Paris, feel the sun and the heat in Greece, break free of Europe and see everything beautiful from Victoria Falls to Christ the Redeemer and the Taj Mahal. Mary has been here for what feels like so long she’s begun to forget the details of Bald Hills, and though Moscow still feels as foreign to her as a city 1,000 miles away, she can’t imagine leaving. Moscow isn’t always kind, but she’s started to believe that it feels like home.

Natasha, good with everything minute and detailed, has Moscow memorized, the roads and alleyways as familiar as the backs of her hands. She loves showing Mary around, showing her the parks and bridges and little tea shops she’s grown to adore. They keep a respectable distance outside, at least a foot between each other’s shoulders, and Natasha recounts memories she’s had on every block; taking the bus with Nikolai, photos with Sonya, coming home from dinner in the dark. Her smile is melancholic and real; Mary walks a little ways behind her and hates the space between their hands.

 

**v.**

Other things Mary still doesn’t know (that Natasha’s learned, so far) include: kids’ shows, high school drama, the feeling of staying up all night for school. Sleepovers—though Natasha thinks that doesn’t count, because living together is essentially a nonstop sleepover—and memorizing the lines to a favorite movie.

Mary, however, does know—to such an extent that Natasha is convinced she runs a library in her mind—stories. Hundreds and hundreds of stories; nursery rhymes for children, wive’s tales, folk songs, Bible anecdotes, full Shakespeare soliloquies (her favorites are Ophelia’s), Greek poetry, works so dreamy and pastoral, original and moving, that they must be hers. She says that she learned them all at Bald Hills, in the grand library with pine wood shelves and books printed from as far back as 1812. When the algebra lessons and her father were too much, when the effort of religion sunk on her shoulders like lead, when her brother left home for the first time, then the second, she would hide away in the library and read.

She misses it, now. All the textbooks and novels and scriptures hiding in Moscow’s libraries pale in comparison.

It’s a rainy evening, and they sit on the couch, Natasha’s hair a cloud in Mary’s lap. The stoic, experienced skyline of Moscow stands grey outside their windows, almost blending in with the sky; rain and sleet and hail and every bit of nasty Russian weather imaginable churns outside their windows, and Mary is telling stories.

This time, it is a story about a girl and a jigsaw puzzle she tries to solve, a big, thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle with an acrylic painting of a woman on it. She shows it to her friend before they leave to go back home, hours and miles away. She puts three, four, five puzzle pieces together each day, and winter turns to summer, and there is one piece missing. The girl cannot find it, and the friend realizes it is in their coat pocket; without knowing, they took it home, hours and miles away. They fly to her house, hours and miles, with the puzzle piece in their coat pocket.

“They step into the house, and a missing space, a tear in their lungs is healed. The house, the house of their dear friend, the house is home.”

Mary seems to act out their emotions as she narrates them, loss in her eyes. Mary’s hands are gesticulating, hovering in the air; Natasha takes one with her own and pulls it to her lips, gives it an absent-minded kiss.

“She stares at them, quizzically, and they cannot seem to make eye contact; they have missed this place more than they thought. Slowly, they take—Natalie, listen to the story—their coat out from their suitcase, and the puzzle piece from their coat. She watches the whole affair carefully, eyes still young like a child’s— _Natalie_ —”

Natasha’s eyes are closed, soft around the edges with sleep, a playful smile on her lips.

“I love you, Masha, and I’m paying attention. Her eyes are young, still like a child’s.”

“—eyes still young like a child’s. She grins at them. The puzzle piece is part of the woman’s eye, shining black and inquisitive. They run their fingers along the edges, feel the corners and glossy plastic— Natalie, oh, Natalie.”

Mary sighs, closing her eyes, and the book in her mind shuts. Natasha is dozing off rapidly, her features slackening. Mary’s fingers twist through her hair, run against the gentle corners of her face; Natasha hums a melodical hum.

The sky has darkened significantly, from evening to night, and the rain continues. Mary sees their reflection in the window, distorted and doubled as windowpanes reflect, and there’s a warm, rising feeling in her chest. In the breath Mary takes between whispering her girlfriend’s name and looking back down to her, Natasha is already asleep.

Mary is left looking out to Moscow, pinpricks of light against the rain and darkness. She wonders who can see in, who can see two girls together, one so Russian her family’s name appears back before the Napoleonic wars, the other whose mother lived through three Ghanaian republics before finding her way here. Together as girlfriends, they’re the face of Russian outliers. That’s all whoever can see in can see; that’s what they have to hate. A well-timed rumble of thunder sounds, and Mary withdraws her hand from where it rests against Natasha’s head. They’re fine in here, she knows, she hopes. They’re fine, even if Moscow thinks otherwise.

They’re fine, and she believes it.

 

**vi.**

Regardless of its problems, Moscow feels like home.

Maybe not for forever—Natasha begs, Natasha pleads for Mary to say “yes” to moving—but it’s the steadiest home that Mary has ever known. Even though Moscow doesn’t love everything about Mary, doesn’t love a lot about Natasha, Mary can’t help but love it, love the consistency; the Pushkin remains the Pushkin, the Moskva freezes over nearly every winter, the Russian ladies are always dressed for catwalks instead of grocery stores, and _Natasha._

Natasha was always part of Moscow, even before they ended up together. Years ago, eons ago, there was Natasha, walking home from school with Sonya as Mary waited to pick up her brother. Natasha’s laughter echoing down the hallway in the Bolkonsky household as she plays video games. Natasha now, texting her with too many exclamation points and hearts. Natasha now, kissing her the instant the door is shut and when the guests finally leave. Natasha now, cooking blinis every Friday and always needing Mary to take anything she bakes out of the oven, afraid of hurting her hands.

Natasha now: all that Mary really needs. With her, Moscow almost seems kind. With her, most everything seems possible.

With her, Mary’s home.


End file.
